


Eyes like a car crash

by risemidnighthands



Series: Eyes Like A Car Crash [1]
Category: Linkin Park
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-28
Updated: 2015-02-02
Packaged: 2018-02-10 20:31:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2039127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/risemidnighthands/pseuds/risemidnighthands
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What do you do when you despise every waking moment, but are terrified of the images that play behind your own closed eyes?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I know I shouldn't look, but I can't turn away

**Author's Note:**

> 2008-ish. No wives. First person point of view. Titles from lyrics in "Deathbeds" by Bring Me the Horizon

Everything seemed normal when we arrived at the hotel after a great show that night. Chester and I joked around as we got out of the van while Dave just shook his head to Mark who was filming us. It was just like every other night as we gathered our things to go up to our rooms, but as I looked up something caught my eye.

The sight was enough to make my backpack slip from my hands and fall to the concrete. I couldn’t even remember the expensive laptop nestled inside because all I could do was stare at the red flashing lights across the street.

I heard Chester call my name, but any other words were choked from his lips as his eyes rose to the scene captivating my own. Dave slowly walked up almost next to me, and said, “Is that…?”

He didn’t have to finish the thought as every one of my senses locked on what appeared to be a car accident about fifty yards away. Large, red paramedic units and men in uniforms surrounded a mutilated van on its side---a van not unlike the one we just exited.

As if I was in a trance I slowly stepped off into the night, my feet guiding me towards the lights and commotion. Chester called to me again, but I couldn’t have responded if I wanted to. I think I heard him ask the doorman to take our bags into the hotel lobby before his footsteps sounded on the pavement as he jogged to catch up to me. Dave and Mark weren’t too far behind.

“Maybe it’s not them,” the singer said with hope laced in his voice.

 _Don’t bother with the optimism, Ches_ , the thought coursed through my mind, but no words passed my lips in response.

I stop at the edge of the scene, not twenty feet away from the overturned van that I’m sure carried the other half of our band back from the show. Various vehicles with spinning lights topping their roofs block my view from what I already know.

Farther away I see a mustang convertible with the front completely smashed. There are a group of people lifting a stretcher from the driver’s side.

No one is doing that around the van. No, they are just standing, looking at the ground.

Someone---Fiore, Phoenix, Chester, I don’t know, I don’t _care_ \---urges me to move. He wants to find out what happened, but not a single cell in my body wants to move. Voices float around my ears as my friends speak, but I am focused on the ones that don’t quite reach my ears, the words that flow from the mouths of the paramedics in front of me. Dave and Mark walk over to an officer leaning on his car.

I sense more than feel Chester beside me, his tattooed arm reaching out to squeeze my upper arm. Comforting I suppose.

Comfort for what though?

There was no soothing for this.

Is he trying to talk to me?

I can’t tell.

I’m too focused on the scene.

He is turning into me now, hiding from reality in my chest.

_No, Ches, don’t hide. The truth is right in front of us. No use running._

My hand goes to stroke his back, but I’m not thinking about him. Not really.

My eyes are locked on the accident.

They’re all still just standing around, looking at _something_ on the ground.

At last, a man lays a blue sheet down. It’s directly over the point at which they were staring.

A few feet away, the same thing happens.

A large man on a stretcher is brought to an ambulance.

Two more sheets go down.

I do the math in my head.

The mustang driver, the van driver, security guard, and three band members. That’s six total.

Four sheets.

Two men on stretchers.

One was the other driver I’m sure.

The second probably our security guard riding with them.

I let go of the singer in front of me, and hear my voice speak.

“I’m going up to bed.”

It sounds like I haven’t spoken in days.

It could have been days.

I wouldn’t have known the difference.

I turn around and begin the small trek back to the hotel.

I don’t look at the sadness or the bewilderment etched on his features.

I definitely don’t look at the flicker of hope still in his eyes.

I don’t need hope because I already know.

His hand reaches out to grip my arm, and I don’t have the energy to shake it off. He tells me to wait so he can go inform our friends that we are going up to the room. I do as he asks and as soon as he is back we start off again together.

Well, sort of together.

We walk at the same pace and he occasionally looks over at me, but nothing else gives away even so much as the fact that we know each other.

Chester went up to the front desk to get our room keys and whatever. He asked someone to bring the bags up to our room as well, while I waited by the elevator. All the way up until we got into our room, he just stared at me. He was waiting for me to show some sign of emotion.

I’m not good at that though. He might have to wait a while.

Once we got to the room I told him I was going to shower, and just shut the bathroom door before he could say anything. I locked it and before long had steaming water rushing over my body, washing away the sweat from our show.

When I was done, I walked out into the bed area in just my towel. The six of us practically live together for months at a time.

 _Had lived_.

We had all seen each other in less clothes than we’d like to. Still, I noticed him staring at me from where he sat on his own bed. I shouldn’t have been surprised, after all, it was no secret that Chester had a crush on me.

And maybe I had feelings for him, not that that mattered.

My bags were on the other bed, and I took my time pulling the clothes out.

Tee shirt. Boxers. The rest went to the floor.

I ignore his concerned, watchful eyes as I pulled back the duvet and sheet on my bed, slipping under the covers like any other night.

The ring of his cell phone causes him to jump, and he fumbles to answer it.

I don’t react at all. It would have taken a lot to startle me.

It would have taken a lot to make me feel anything.

I hear him on the phone as I just turn the other way, and lay on my side, my back to him.

“Hello,” his voice is hoarse. “Fuck, no,” he gasps out. “Yeah, we’re in our room. See you in a minute, Dave.”

I see, our dear bassist just called to tell us the news.

Too bad I already know.

So did Chester, but he made the mistake of hoping for the best.

I imagine what he must look like now: one arm across his midsection, his other elbow resting on it as he uses his thumb and middle finger to rub his closed eyes. I’m sure tears are threatening to escape, and his mouth is open, chest heaving for oxygen.

“Mike,” I hear him croak out, and I turn my head towards him slightly. “That was Dave.” _No shit, Ches._ “They---Joe, Rob---” he chokes on a sob, “and Brad didn’t make it. They’re dead.” The last words are near silent. Still, I don’t respond, just turn back over and pretend to go to sleep.

Minutes later, there is a knock at the door. My body is motionless, he probably thinks I’m asleep.

I’m not.

I’m gazing out the window at the scene as lights start to disappear and the swarm of people at the accident slowly start to leave.

He answers the door and I can hear them whispering. They think I’m asleep. They think I can’t hear what they are saying.

Hate to break it to you guys, _I can hear every single fucking word._

“Dave,” Chester greets them. “Mark,” his voice sounds pained.

There’s a pause, and I think they’re hugging.

“So what happened?”

Mark’s voice sounds for the first time. “They were in the van on the way back from the venue. Some nut in a mustang ran a red light and crashed into them at full speed. The impact knocked the van spinning. Both vehicles were totaled.”

“Oh my god,” I hear Chester whisper.

“The other driver is in critical condition. The security guard that was in the van is in the hospital,” Dave delivers the _good_ news. Ha, good news.

“Joe died instantly from his head being smashed into the window, Rob’s neck snapped when the van was flipped around, and Brad,” our videographer stops to sigh painfully. “Brad died from multiple injuries caused by broken shards of glass.”

I forcefully shut my eyes. No, I don’t want to picture it, I don’t want to see my best friends in this horrific scene.

I can hear them sobbing out by the door.

“Where’s Mike?” Dave’s voice breaks the silence.

“He’s asleep.” _No, Ches, you’re wrong._ “He took a shower and went straight to bed...I’ll tell him.”

“Do you want us to stay?”

“No, no, go get some sleep. We’ll...we’ll figure things out in the morning.”

They say goodnight and I hear clothes rub together. They’re hugging again.

The door closes, and I can hear him walking back towards me. He stands in front of me, and I can feel his stare.

The covers are pulled up to my chin and my eyes are shut; I’m sure I look asleep.

“Mike,” he whispers. Maybe he does know me well enough to know I am conscious. I don’t answer though. I do nothing that proves I am awake.

He sighs before settling into the chair near the foot of my bed. _Go to sleep, Ches. Stop worrying about me._

Behind my eyelids I see them laying down those blankets, I see them pronouncing my best friends _dead_. The memory plays over and over in my mind until sleep finally claims me, and darkness washes over my mind.

 


	2. Body like a whiplash

He’s there when I wake up the next morning.

Not that I slept much.

He probably got more sleep than I did.

I can see his form slumped in the chair out of the corner of my eye. He spent most of the night just watching me---waiting for a sign that I might break.

I never do though.

I probably shouldn’t, but I stay on my side, staring out the window again.

I can see it. The scene where it happened.

It’s clean though.

Like it never occurred.

Maybe it didn’t.

Maybe it was just a dream.

Looking at Chester though---the way his body is completely sagging, and his clothes unchanged---I know it wasn’t.

It was real, and three of my bandmates---three of my best friends---were gone.

_He_ was gone.

God fuck! How could this happen? It wasn’t their time---wasn't _his_ time...

I squeeze my eyes shut, and will the time to go back---twelve hours would suffice, for god’s sake!---just enough to prevent the accident from happening. Please let them just not be dead.

Please let _him_ be okay.

Wishing for it not to be true gets nothing done, so I throw the covers off my body. I am sitting on the edge, elbows resting on my knees and my face in my hands, when I hear him awaken.

“Mike?” he says groggily as I stand and make to pass him, picking things out of my bag on the floor on the way. He rubs his already bloodshot and swollen eyes, wincing at the movements.

“You should have gone to bed, that chair will mess up your back,” I say to him with no emotion. _Don’t hover over me, Ches. I don’t need it_.

I hear him chuckle, but it’s forced, as I step into the bathroom and shut the door.

After taking a piss and washing my hands, I look at myself in the mirror. My elbows are locked and my hands placed on the edge of the counter, and I glare at my reflection. It glares back, unintimidated. My hair is messy from sleeping on it wet, sticking out every which way, and I am starting to get dark circles underneath my eyes from lack of sleep.

I shut them, blacking out the face in the mirror.

It doesn’t deter the colors though. Images flash before my closed eyes---images of those fucking paramedics laying down those damn blue blankets.

I open them when I hear him knock on the door. “Mike? Are you okay in there?” There’s a seriously worried undertone to his voice.

“Yeah, I’ll be out in a minute,” I reply before quickly rinsing my face and brushing my teeth. _I’m fine. Leave me alone, Ches_.

When I come out, he is sitting on his bed which is still perfectly made up since he never slept there. Holding onto his things, he is deep in thought as I go back to my bag. “I’m done if you need to use the bathroom,” I tell him.

He thanks me and moves to the room I just exited, but he lingers in the threshold. He stares at me, one hand on the door, with such utter confusion and concern that I want to throw something at that perfect face. I look at him pointedly until he shuts the door, and I can hear him turn on the shower.

_Stop it, Ches. Worrying will get you nowhere with me._

I take my time putting on clothes. I can’t seem to escape the memory of them laying down the blankets though. I push away the thoughts as best I can, ignoring them and any subsequent feelings. I refuse to feel.

I am completely ready to go when he comes out. A smile graces his lips and he looks so fresh as if this is any other morning. His eyes betray him. They are still bloodshot and dull, no spark like normal. The smile doesn’t reach them either; it stops dead at the curve of his mouth, never traveling up his cheeks and crinkling near his eyes.

Nothing betrays me though.

No tears, no sign of crying.

I don’t feel it.

 

Later that day we pulled up to my house in his car. Before the tour he had picked me up, so riding with him again was my only option back.

Well, I would have opted for a cab, but he didn't go for it.

He got out with me, but I just grabbed my bags and headed for the door without looking back.

Just as I was unlocking the door, I realized he was right behind me again. Again, staring at me with those worried brown eyes.

“Thanks for the ride. You can go now,” I called over my shoulder while I stepped into my house and flicked on some lights, dropping my bags in the living room, and continuing to the kitchen. I had gotten a glass of water, and was sipping it when I noticed him standing in the doorway, bags in hand.

I squinted at him as he began to speak. “Mike…”

Already knowing what he was going to suggest, I interrupted him. “No, Chester.”

“I think I should stay with you for a while…”

“You have your own fucking house!”

“Given the event that just happened, having someone around might be nice,” I just scoffed at him. “Look, Mark is staying with Dave to make sure he is okay---”

I stop him again, “I don’t care what they’re doing! I’m fine on my own. I don’t need you!”

I see him sort of grimace and pain flashes in his eyes. I hurt him. Good.

_I’m sorry, Ches. This is no good for you though. I am no good for you._

After a long pause he speaks again, “Yeah? Well maybe I need you,” his voice is quiet, and calm, the injured expression gone to be replaced again by poorly masked concern.

“Whatever,” I said before taking my things upstairs, and locking myself in my room.

 

He won’t fucking leave.

It’s been weeks, and he hasn’t gone home.

Well, he goes home to get a few things, but otherwise he is living in my fucking house.

People keep coming by, too.

Dave.

Mark.

Our managers.

Why won’t they just leave me the fuck alone.

They’re all crying and sad.

I hate it.

Although, I hate cheeriness more.

I was the only one dry-eyed at the funeral. Not counting the people who really didn’t know any of them.

Does that make me a monster?

Probably.

He watches me.

He won’t even the hide it as he studies me wherever we are.

He is still waiting for the break.

They’re worried about me, the damn bastards.

I overheard them talking the other day.

The fuckers were in the kitchen. They were discussing me in my own fucking house!

I had just been coming down the stairs when I heard them. They weren’t as quiet as they thought they were being.

“Is he in denial?” Dave asked. I probably am.

“I don’t know, but doesn’t react like he should!” Chester is frustrated. “He never shows any sort of anger or sadness or upset. I don’t know if he was ever even mourning!”

“That is what he _does_ , Chaz. Mike shuts out his feelings, and refuses to deal with them, and you can’t do anything about it.” _He’s right, Ches. So don’t bother_.

“It is going to hurt him in the end. Bottling up his feelings is just going to make it worse.”

“You know that, I know that, hell, he probably even knows that! It won’t change what he does though.”

“No, I know. I’m just fucking frustrated. He acts like everything is normal! He still spends so much time in his studio, writing music for the band! We haven’t even discussed what is going to happen since there’s just the three of us!”

That’s where I left again, heading back up to the studio, writing more music they didn’t want. I put together parts that _they_ would never play again. I made demos that I could never again play for _them_. When I couldn’t do that anymore, I splattered paint on a canvas. I sketched out anything and everything that came to mind. I put together pieces on my computer---pieces of art _they_ would never be able to see.

Alone, the images plague my mind again. I can’t get the scene out of my head: the blue blankets, the lights, the uniforms...all of it. It is terribly difficult to reject something that played before your own eyes.

If I admit it though, it could destroy me.

If I just ignore the facts blaring in my face, I can suppress the grief---the pain, the anger, the sadness, the _emotions_.

I should have fucking known not to get close to him.

They always leave in some way or another.

Everyone.

I have been broken so many times, by too many different people. I trust them too much or invest too much in them. Disappointment is my best friend. If I am not the one to get hurt, I let down the other person. I hate it. All the failed relationships and friendships haunt me into keeping to myself, and shutting others out. It’s the best for all parties involved.

_He_ was before that though. I had known him since middle school, and we became friends before I shied away from such things. _He_ was the only one I opened up to.

Of course I had been close with all of our band members, but when it came down to it, none of the others _really_ knew me.

Not like _him_.

And now---

No, I won’t think about it.

I _can’t_ think like that.

I don’t care what they say I should do or how I should handle it.

I refuse to listen to them.

I will deal my own way.

I will keep writing, and playing, and creating.

It is the only way I am going to survive this.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I think few, if not no one, are actually interested in this story here. I will finish posting it here, I forgot actually. The whole thing is finished on my LPF account if you are dying to know. There's also a companion story that I'll put up at the end.  
> I don't know guys. I have a fair amount on lpfiction right now (my profile link is on my profile here), should I post it here? Are there people who care? Does anyone follow me at all? If you like me, please follow me on Twitter (@Will_Rise_Again) and let me know what you want. I haven't written Mars in a long time, but I still want to.


	3. Salt my wounds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: mature audiences only

It took me a while to realize that no one had ever explained to me what happened.

I only knew because I overheard the conversation that night.

Chester never told me the horrid story like he said he would.

_Protecting me, Ches? Don't._

Still, I never bothered to confront him. What would be the point?

 

There _he_ sat, right in front of me with his guitar. He was laughing and smiling at me as he played some tune just for fun.

How could this be? Wasn’t he---...didn’t he---...the car accident months ago…?

 _He’s gone_ ; I know he is...then how is he fiddling around on the guitar with me right now?

I must be dreaming. As I watch him though, I wish to heaven and back that it isn’t a dream.

When I wake up, the tears are already staining my pillow and stinging my eyes, there is a pain in my gut, and my chest feels like it weighs two tons.

When he calls me, I turn over and squeeze my eyes shut to keep the tears from him. He asks me if I want to eat something.

Breakfast. With him.

_When are you going to stop trying, Ches?_

I just want to be left alone.

But it is Chester, and we apparently don’t want the same things; it has been months, and he still has not left my fucking house.

I don’t know if the dude just doesn’t have a life or something, but it seems like he is checking up on me twenty-four-seven. I think he is still waiting for some huge mental break or meltdown. Except it hasn’t happened. Nor will it.

 

I keep having those dreams. I keep seeing them in my dreams. Then I wake up, and they're gone. I'm starting to avoid sleeping because I can't stand waking up into reality every morning.

It hurts too much. Living it over and over again. Once was enough---more than enough.

Sometimes it's not them. Sometimes other people I know and care about die in my nightly adventures. Death surrounds every unconscious moment, and creeps around every waking one, too.

I wake up screaming often during those dreams and Chester is there to comfort me at crazy hours in the night.

I won't let him, though, but he keeps coming back.

_Let me alone, Ches._

Every nightly terror, or waking pain, he is there, ready to do anything I need.

Anything except go away.

 

It’s December first and I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing. My family came over for Thanksgiving which happens very rarely these years. Chester and his son Jaime were there as well since I couldn’t get rid of him.

It was fine. My parents were happy to see me, and it was good to catch up with my brother some. They loved having Chester and Jaime there with us, and my mom was overjoyed that the singer is staying with me.

Too bad I don't share her excitement.

They’re gone again though, and it is just me and Chester.

I would have preferred to be alone to being smothered in his presence. Right now I am hiding in the office area attached to my studio. He is cleaning downstairs, and probably counting down the  time until his next check up on me. He would make such a good housewife.

_I’m not in fucking high school, Ches. I can take care of myself._

One of his guitars is on the wall next to different paintings. It is the guitar actually. The red PRS with the soldier. He had really loved the thing.

I miss him so much.

I miss when we used to create music together, when he taught me guitar, when we would joke and laugh about pointless things, when we would hang out...I miss when he was here.

“Happy birthday, Brad. I miss you so much,” I whisper into the empty room. “Oh BBB, why did you have to go so early? I still need you, and I don’t know how much longer I can go on like this.”

I tried really hard, but a tear escapes my eye and slides down my cheek. Before more could follow, I blink away the others gathering in my eyes, staring at a blank corner in the ceiling.

 

By nine later that night, I had actually gotten somewhat hungry, and had made my way to the kitchen to pick at leftovers or something. Chester would take the liberty to cook in my kitchen and make some pretty cool meals, but I tend to avoid it or not have much of an appetite. I just hate sitting down for a long, drawn out meal.

I am digging in the refrigerator when he shows up again. I can feel him behind me, and I groan.

_Leave me be, Ches._

I turn around to look at him irritably, “what do you want, Chester?”

“I just wanted to see if you needed anything,” he says, not acknowledging my snarly tone in any way.

_Oh Ches, how sweet. I don’t need anything from you._

“Well I’m fine, so can you back the fuck off,” I glare at him, and close the fridge.

He nods, but makes no move to leave, and I finally notice the true physical proximity of our bodies. He is standing less than a foot away from me; I can feel his breath across my chin as he stares calmly into my eyes.

Why is he looking at me like that?

I can feel all my defenses sliding away, and my angry front crumbling before those chocolate brown eyes.

I have got to get his eyes away from mine because it feels like he is staring straight through everything, and into my soul.

I don’t know how, but in the next moment I’ve taken a step forward, my hands are on his face, my eyes have slid shut, and my lips are holding one of his between them.

His mouth is soft and tender, but in a different way from a woman’s. Before the accident I had thought about what he might taste like, but never had I actually done anything.

What am I even doing now?

_Ches, I want you._

When I first advanced on him, he was surprised and took a moment to respond. After a few seconds I feel him relax, and I can imagine his features soften even more and his eyelids fall. I feel his hands lightly cup my elbows, and he tilts his head slightly to give me more access. He accepts when I plunge my tongue into his warm, wet mouth, and I explore, feeling his soft, velvet muscle and his teeth.

The next thing I know, I am pushing him into the kitchen counter, and my hands are running all over his back and thighs. I can feel my pants getting tighter and as I move, my groin grinds against his, and I can feel his hardness as well.

What am I doing? I need to stop right now.

Then he groans out, “Mikey,” and I am lost.

_I need you now, Ches._

Every reasonable thought to pull away leaves in that instant.

My hands are slipping down his lower back, over his ass, and to the backs of his thighs where I lift him up and bring his legs around my waist so he is sitting on my hips. His arms instinctively grip my shoulders, and I am whispering, “I want you, Ches,” into his mouth.

Somehow I manage to carry him up to my bedroom. My hand never leaves his ass, and my lips stay locked with his.

He is completely submissive as I throw him on the bed and drop on top of him. He does not contest when I remove his shirt by simply ripping it from his body. There is no complaint when I ground my erection into his or when I open his pants and slide them off along with his boxers. He doesn’t stop me when my own clothes end up on the floor, and the head of my cock is rubbing at his entrance.

So I shove into his tight, unprepared hole, with only my precum as lubrication.

He doesn’t scream, or even whimper in pain as any normal person would do. I take note of the tears in his eyes and the way he bites his tongue, but do nothing to ease his discomfort. With my hips between his legs and my hands braced on either side of his head, I am completely focused on the glorious sensation running through my dick to my stomach and the rest of my nerves.

He is squeezing my dick so hard from his tightness that it seems like it will be forced to slip out.

And it feels oh so good.

Moaning, I pull out and push back in as far as I can. It has been too long, and I needed this release. I continue to roll my hips into him until he gasps and makes some sort of sound I could not describe. His facial expression changes as his eyes slide shut, and his jaw relaxes.

His face is of pure bliss as I look down at him, continuing my thrusts in the new angle, his teeth pulling slightly at his bottom lip.

_Oh Ches, you’re beautiful._

Quickening my pace, I dip my head to softly sink my teeth into the flesh of his neck. I bite and suck the skin there, and feel his hands grip my shoulder blades. His own hard penis rubs between our abdomens as I slam into his prostate.

I am moaning curse words into his ear as I am practically exploding with pleasure. "Fuck, Ches. You feel...so...good," I say between panting and thrusting.

I hear his own gasping breath in my ear as he breathes out, "Mikey, yes! Fuck! Oh god, yes!"

I love the sound of his voice as I pound into him, and I am more turned on than I have ever been before. I hardly notice his nickname for me, and that he has never called me that before tonight.

By now, my cock is sliding in and out with ease from the spreading pre-ejaculation dripping out the slit. With his sexy voice in my ear, and my dick pumping the hell out of his ass, I am getting close to release, but part of me wants it to never end.

I want to stay in this moment with nothing else. I don't want to go back to the real world.

Just as I unleash my orgasm into his ass and bite down hard enough to leave a mark, I feel his fingernails in my back, and his hot seed spurt onto our stomachs.

You are perfect, Ches.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...same as what I said at the end of the last chapter.


	4. But I Can't Heal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things have changed between Mike and Chester even more.

I awaken feeling unusually content. It is nothing like the harshness of my own screams that I have been waking to in the last few months. There were no bad dreams, nothing. It is like waking in a different universe.

Then I realize why.

My face is hidden in the smooth skin of a tattooed back, and my arms hold a warm body within them.

Chester is in my bed. His back is pressed against my frontside, and neither of us have clothes.

I slept with Chester Bennington. Fuck.

I _slept_ with him.

Even before the accident, I never spent the night with anyone I had fucked. It is just too much for me.

_This_ is too much for me.

I need to get away immediately.

His slow, easy breathing tells me he is asleep, so I carefully remove myself without disturbing him and nearly sprint to the bathroom where I lock myself in.

I turn on the shower, and watch my face in the mirror as I wait for the water to heat up. How could this have happened?

Pulling my arm back and snapping it forward, my fist collides with the mirror, shards of glass crashing into the sink below. and muddling the face staring back at me. The shattering sound must have woken the man still in my bed because I hear him groggily call out, "Mikey?"

With that, I jump in the shower, wincing at the steamy hot water before turning the temperature down---but only slightly.

He comes to the door and knocks, asking, "Mikey? Babe, are you okay?" but I say nothing in response.

_Don't call me that, Ches._

How the fuck did this happen?

I place my hands on the tile wall, and lean with my head bowed, staring at the porcelain floor. I let the hot water rain down directly on my head while I stand there in thought.

On the one hand, I have to admit that it had been nice. It had felt good, and with him there, the nightmares ceased.

On the other, much larger hand, I could not do this. I was incapable of handling anything that went along with it. There is no way I could be in a relationship with Chester Bennington. No. No way.

I didn't even feel the same way.

It was just an irresponsible indulgence in a sexual urge.

_I’m sorry, Ches._

It could never be what he wanted, whatever that was. I could never be open enough with him.

Even though I know it will only make it worse, I run from him.

When I end my shower, I quickly dress without speaking.

He watches me, a sadness in his pretty little brown eyes.

Something else, too.

Like he knew this was going to happen.

I try not to look at him, but his eyes follow me, the corners of his mouth twisting down in hurt.

"What are you doing?", "Where are you going?", and "Can we talk?" are questions that hit my back and die with no answer.

I have to get away.

With a guitar and some writing utensils in the backseat, I get in my car and leave the house for once.

I go to _his_ old apartment. His family had put me in control of it, but I still haven’t sold it or anything.

I couldn’t.

I like to go there, though. It almost feels like I am going to meet him.

In the end, I am alone.

He isn’t going to be there to help me write parts or critique my work. He isn’t going to be there to magnificently outshine my guitar playing skills.

It is just me hitting strings and putting ink to paper in an empty flat.

I stay for hours, shutting out everything else.

Chester calls me multiple times, but I never pick up.

By the time I leave, I have five missed calls, two voicemails, and four text messages. All of them from him. All of them asking where I am, how I was doing, and if we could talk.

No one else calls me anyway. Everyone else has given up and doesn’t bother trying.

_Why don’t you give up on me, too, Ches?_

He is waiting for me on the couch when I get home. He looks like a father catching his teenage kid sneaking back from a party he wasn’t supposed to attend in the first place.

“Hey,” he says hesitantly while I glare at the wall behind him.

“I’m going to bed,” is all I utter before going up the stairs.

He tries to plead, “Can we please talk, Mikey?”, but my bedroom door slams before he can finish the question.

 

Everything has gotten worse.

Chester has been hovering even more, which I didn’t know was fucking possible.

I keep waking up to him on my bed, until I scream at him to leave.

Thankfully, we have clothes on so I know we didn’t fuck.

My night terrors are getting really bad.

Although I guess the actual dreams aren’t often bad.

Just the fact that I have to remember that _they’re_ gone over and over.

I have to keep reliving the realization that _his_ smiling face will never be again, and I am only in a dream.

My pillows are soaked with tears, and my sheets stained with cold sweat.

All I can see behind my eyes is blue and red.

Blue sheets on top of cold bodies.

Red lights flashing in the night.

I’m fine though.

I don’t need help, and I certainly don’t need Chester motherfucking Bennington mothering me like I’m five years old.

_Go back to your own life, and leave me alone, Ches._

 

Okay, maybe I’m not so great.

Salt water streams from my eyes when I am alone in the shower and the spray can drown my sobs.

The steaming water numbs the pain in my chest that I only let myself feel when I am alone for sure.

I can handle it though.

 

Five months have passed since the one night I let myself get seduced by Chester (who still won’t leave by the way).

It is the anniversary of the accident, and I am sitting on a stool with a glass of amber liquid in my hand.

Yes, I’m sitting in a bar.

Now, I don’t drink that much, a couple beers during the week. Every now and then I dig into the harder liquor, but it isn’t often.

_He_ never was much of a drinker.

Chester hates it when I go drinking.

Which is probably why I am sitting here downing my third (?) shot of tequila.

And I may have had a glass of whiskey.

And maybe some vodka.

I am tasting my way through the alcoholic beverages.

Fine, a little more than “tasting”, but I am not that drunk.

I think.

I’m finally feeling light, though.

And those damned emotions aren’t even trying to bubble to the surface.

I’m getting kind of bored and tired though, so I think I’ll go home.

Yes, home. Where did I park?

On the ride home there is lots of bright lights speeding by me.

A lot of horn-honking, too. Jesus, people chill out.

I pull up to my driveway and the house moves closer to me really quickly as I park next to Chester’s car.

When I get out, I see that some stupid kid has knocked over my mailbox.

Damn, where did that dent in Chester’s Honda come from?

Oh look, he’s standing in the door waiting for me.

_Go away, Ches._

I think he yells at me as I stumble up the stairs to my room and collapse on my bed.

 

In the morning my head is pounding and somehow I’ve magically changed into just boxers and a tee shirt and am under the sheets.

Chester tells me that he changed my clothes for me.

He also tells me that I puked on the lawn, and in the hallway (but not to worry because he cleaned it up).

Oh, and that I bumped his car pulling in last night and dented my front bumper by running into the house.

And that it was me that ran into the mailbox.

And that I probably got in a bar fight because I have a black eye and a massive bruise on my jaw.

_Stop parenting me, Ches._

 

As months go by it continues something like that. Although I never drink quite as much as I had that night, I did develop a _small_ alcohol problem.

I just enjoy the light feeling it gives me. It is as if the weight of the world is lifted from my shoulders.

That is, until my dreams take over at night.

The few nights I didn't suffer from my horrid dreams, I woke up to one: Chester in my bed.

_I don't want you, Ches._

Which is why I began going to bed later and later into the night so dreams can’t touch me for long.

Instead, I stayed up in the studio with a six pack or I went out. I had taken a liking to clubs and bars.

Something Chester hated.

I’ve started bringing home women on occasions. The skanky kind that desperately want men to pick them up.

One turned out to be a prostitute which was a mistake.

I _really_ got an earful from Chester for that one.

Except I didn't listen.

The thing was, I never actually put my dick in them.

Okay, so I got a blowjob from a few of them, but I didn't have sex with any of them.

And it never made me feel anything. I just did it.

_Ches, you ruined it._

 

Six months after the bar incident, I am putting on my jacket to get ready to go out for the night. Slipping on my DC shoes, I spin my head around to look for my keys. That's when he comes out to stand in the kitchen doorway. Apparently he has gotten to the last straw because he looks truly pissed.

"Again, Mike? Seriously? Aren't you tired of this game yet?"

"This isn't a game, Chester, it's my life."

"No, it's not," he shakes his head. "Your life is being an artist and a brilliant song writer. This is you throwing it away."

"Jesus, Chester, will you stop acting like my mother? I'm a grown fucking man."

"Then why don't you start acting like it? Instead of this stupid high school acting out thing."

"Oh, fuck you, dude," I say back lamely.

"I'm fucking serious. You have so much talent, and you're just wasting it. You **never** used to drink this much, and it's destroying you. Alcoholism is no good, Mike."

"Yeah, you would know know, wouldn't you?" I say to hurt him, but he just calmly counters me.

"Yes, I would. That's why I don't want it to consume you."

I don't have a response for him, except to lock my jaw defiantly as he continues scolding me.

"You keep getting drunk and bringing home club trash, but I don't think you even want them. You never go all the way with them, and you've forgotten their faces by morning."

"How would you know I don't fuck them, huh? Are you watching me or something? Creep."

"I know what sex sounds like."

"Oh, you're listening? That's fucking perverted. Why don't you get a life of your own and stop interfering with mine? Or wait, maybe you just can't get laid and that's why you keep pining after me. Guess what, it's never going to happen."

I'm losing all control, and tears are in his eyes as he yells back at me.

"I am here because I fucking love you! We were in fucking Linkin Park, I could get laid if I really wanted that. But what I want is you, Mike. If I can't have that, all I want is to see you okay and happy. I fucking care about you! I am in love with you, Mike Shinoda."

"No you aren't! Don't fucking say that because it's not true!" I am screaming at him with anything I think will hurt him because his words have hit my like a smack on the upside of my head. "And if you wanted me to be happy, you would just leave because I don't need or want you here! Just get out of my house and leave me the fuck alone!"

For a very long minute he just states into my eyes as the tears fall silently down his face. Then he begins walking towards me and I think he is going to kiss me, but he just turns to pass me, grabbing his keys on the way out the door.

_Finally you've listened, Ches._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like I've said before, this story is completed and uploaded in its entirety on LPfiction, so if you are reading this here and can't wait for me to remember to post it, you can find it there. My LPF account is in my profile here. I will finish posting this story here, as well as a story that goes with it. I have other M/C stories written (once again found on LPF), but if people want, I can put them up here as well. Thanks for reading. Let me know what you think.


	5. the way I feel about you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter

I watch the door close after him.

_Don’t leave me, Ches._

The sound of his car fades into the distance and it feels like a knife in my chest.

I don’t know why.

Just another person disappearing from my sad, so-called life.

They had all left before him, what is one more?

 

What day is it now?

Does it matter?

Does _anything_ matter?

 

Beer is cold and untouched in my fridge getting older and older by the weeks; I haven’t cracked a bottle---or a can---since he left. Vodka, gin, whiskey---the works---also sit unopened in my cabinet. I haven’t been to a club or bar---I’ve barely left the house.

Some nights I’ve poured myself a glass of wine. I sip it sitting in my dark living room. Never do I have enough to make me drunk---hardly even tipsy at all.

Sometimes I convince myself Chester will come in through my front door to aggravate me again.

It never happens though.

I am alone.

 

Sitting in my studio, the lights are off and the sun has set, my guitar rests on my leg, but my fingers are still and unmoving across the strings. He was always so much better at guitar than I am. I remember back in junior high when he taught me. We bonded with music and traded skills on strings and keys. He became my best friend, and the only one who really stuck by me. I lost almost everyone and I shut myself off to the point that he was the only one who could reach me.

I loved the rest of my bandmates and my other friends, but I could never get close to anyone else. Not even Chester had touched upon what Brad was to me. Hard as he tried, I never let him in.

 

_“I close both locks below the window_

_I close both blinds and turn away”_

How do I move on?

_“sometimes solutions aren’t so simple_

_sometimes goodbye’s the only way”_

I can’t say goodbye to _him_.

_“and the sun will set for you, the sun will set for you_

_and the shadow of the day will embrace the world in grey”_

I need _him_ here.

_“and the sun will set for you.”_

_I need you here with me, Ches._

Brad was so much better at playing than I will ever be. Chester’s voice is a million times more beautiful than mine. I wish I could be even half as good as either of them, but I’m just me.

I’m broken and cold.

Closed off and emotionless.

Darkness has engulfed me by my lonesome.

And I’ve lost both of them.

 

This dream again.

I hated this one.

It was like reliving the night again.

I was there, at the hotel.

The sirens were blaring, the lights pulling me towards the wreck.

I walk over, past the yellow tape, through the uniformed officers---they don’t do anything---and step to the cold body on the ground.

My eyes travel up the dead man.

Thin legs covered in jeans that are now ripped

Torso soaked in blood, glass shards doused in red around the bones and flesh.

As I look up at the face, though, it’s not him.

It’s not Brad.

It’s Chester’s beautiful face lying before me.

His sweet brown eyes staring vacantly into the distance.

His pale, tattooed flesh cut up.

No, no, no, this can’t happen to Chester.

I need to wake up.

This isn’t real, it can’t be.

Not my Ches.

I need to wake up _now_.

My eyes shoot open and I jump from the bed. The sheets twist around my limbs, pulling me to the carpeted floor that suddenly feels like sandpaper and not the softness I paid for. Scrambling to my feet and untangling my half-naked body, I run down the hall, screaming Chester’s name. I turn to the room he occupies, but he’s not there.

I remember now.

He’s gone.

I drove him away and shoved him out the door.

 

Here I am again.

Sitting in _his_  cold, empty apartment, I’m watching the sun sink below the horizon and the city lights slowly start to fade into the dead of night.

From my seat at the table, I can see the calendar on the wall by the kitchen.

The letters spell out a spring month that contradicts the chilly air I feel and the dissolving of the holidays visible in the streets.

**May 2008** it reads.

I’m thirty-three today, February 11, 2010.

Almost two years have gone by and no one has bothered to change the calendar in Brad’s apartment.

And by no one, I mean me.

I just couldn’t.

I couldn’t change a thing.

That would be admitting too much---that would be acknowledging that _he is gone_.

Something needs to change.

I haven’t moved past that night that was a year and nine months ago.

I’m growing older, but my life is at a standstill.

I can’t keep going like this.

I am alone.

 

Sitting on the guest bed he resided in a few months ago, I know that I was wrong: I can’t do this alone.

I need someone.

_I need you, Ches._

Looking around the room, I notice things I didn’t see before.

His clothes are gone, his bags are gone, everything is gone.

I don’t know when, but in the last months he came back and got all of his things.

It’s like he was never here.

I reach behind me for the pillow he used for over a year, but there’s no trace of him.

I never thought I would, but I miss him.

I miss his nagging and his constant checkups. I miss his bustling around the house---nothing seems to be clean anymore, and food is half-assed. I miss his presence and unwanted company.

And although I had barely a taste, I miss the way his lips felt soft on mine and the silkiness of his skin under my hands. I miss the way he feels and the way he fits perfectly in my arms. I miss the love and caring in his eyes when he looked at me.

_I miss you so much, Ches. I’m sorry._

Falling back on the bed, I am prepared to admit to myself feelings that I never expressed to him. As my back hits the mattress, I feel something crinkle underneath me. When I roll over I find a note scribbled on a piece of yellow paper---from the same tablet we used to write lyrics. Sitting on the edge again, I turn on the bedside lamp. The handwriting is unmistakably Chester’s, I would have known even had he not signed it, and it is littered with dust from sitting untouched for months.

 

_Michael,_

_I left because you asked, but I am and always will be in love with you. Whatever you need, whenever you want, call and I’ll do anything for you. Any time you are ready, I’ll come back. I love you, Mikey._

_C_

 

I feel my heart collapsing at his scrawled words across the page. I am filled with frustration and anger at myself, and guilt for doing what I did to Chester.

He’s perfect and I don’t deserve his love or care.

And I want him back.

_Ches, I love you, too._

 

It has taken me six days since I found the note to take action. I decided then that I would try for him, but I was a pussy and moped around the house for almost a week before gathering the courage to go see him. Now I’m on his front step and he is standing in the doorway, staring at me with a blank expression. With a deep breath, I pour out more feelings than I have in years.

“I haven’t stopped thinking about our kiss or the night we had sex. I know it wasn’t the ideal situation, but it was the best thing to happen to me and I fell completely in love with you. It took me a long time to figure it out, and I admit it, but you took my heart with you when I forced you to leave. I was too focused on closing everything off and wanting to disappear, that I pushed you so far away. I’m falling now though because I tried so hard to fight it and it only backfired on me. My feelings brought me back here, to you.

“I don’t know if you will ever be able to save me Chester, or fix me because I’m so fucking broken, but you stayed with me for so long and you saw something in my darkness and heard something in my silence. Maybe I’m hopeless, but I’m pleading you not to give up on me. If you wait, I think you might be the one person who can save me from myself. It’s just that I am terrified to get close to people because that only ever got me hurt and the last person I got close to...the last person I opened up to...died...Brad died...and I’m so alone now, and as much as I hate to admit it, I hate it. I don’t want to feel like this, and each time I feel better, I come crashing back at night. Death follows me everywhere no matter where I go; I can’t drown my demons because they know how to swim, but maybe, just maybe you can help me beat them.

“I love you, Chester. I love you so much, and I am so sorry for everything I have done to you and all the pain I have caused you, and for not appreciating what you did for me. I could never apologize enough. Please, I just need you. I need you, Ches. And god, I want you. Oh Ches, please come back. Please let me love you like I should have been doing all along. Please, just come back to me because I am in love with you, and I always will be.”

When my speech finally ends, I’m breathing heavily and my chest is pounding, and he just stands there in the doorway.

He stares at me with a mask I, myself, all but invented.

I want so badly to run into his arms, but his delicate features are so emotionless they could have been a bad portrait by an unskilled painter.

Silence drags on as my hope begins to crumble in my heart under his ruthless gaze.

I try to look into his eyes, but they are so unreadable I have to turn away. I let my eyes travel from his thin wrist that is rested on the open door, to his gorgeous, muscled chest clad in a white v-neck that reveals his strong arms coloured with tattoos. His dark grey jeans hug his hips and thin legs down to his bare feet.

When I look back up, he is smirking at me.

“Enjoying the view?” he asks with that cute cocky attitude that I love.

“Yeah, I like it a lot,” I start to smile, taking a hesitant step forward so that we’re toe to toe.

I’m looking down at him now, and I am hoping for some sign that my touch is welcome. Slowly, I reach up to his face gently so that I can tilt his chin up for my lips to reach his.

It’s soft and it’s warm and it’s “I’m sorry” and “hello” and it’s accepting and it’s like coming home.

It’s everything I need and it’s everything it should have been from the start.

When I break the kiss, I immediately slide my arms around his thin waist, burying my face in his neck, and losing myself in such a simple hug.

He’s so small and fragile, yet strong enough to hold me up, and he slides his arms around my neck and holding him tightly is the best thing I’ve ever felt. He fits in my arms perfectly.

Tears are spilling from my eyes and “sorry” is slipping from my lips with every breath against his neck.

I can feel his own warm mouth on my neck as he says again, “I love you, Mikey.”

“I love you, too, Ches. I really do.”

With my hands still on his waist, I pull away.

“Ches?” he raises his eyebrow at the nickname.

“Mikey?” I counter and he chuckles with a shrug before pulling by the hand into the house and shutting the door behind us.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks if you read. There will be a sort of companion story up in a bit, but if you can't wait, a chunk of it is up on LPF.

**Author's Note:**

> Also on lpfiction.com


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